


that's right, let's dance

by EllieMurasaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_xmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/pseuds/EllieMurasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean forgets he's not in hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's right, let's dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yanyann](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yanyann).



Dean slices into one of this soul's pectorals. It's not a deep cut, because Dean needs this soul functioning after this session, but it's deep enough that were this not hell it would need stitches, and it bleeds freely. Another slice, and another, at angles to the first. The triangle might be a capital D. Dean spells out a word in short sharp strokes across the soul's chest: DEAN. With the blood as ink, he paints _Winchester_ across the soul's stomach. It has been so hard to remember, for so long, but he _is not_ just another demon, _not_ just Alastair's star pupil.

He's a fucking Winchester.

That still means something to him.

Dean loves this, though: loves every flick of the whip and flicker of hellfire. He's got a candle burning now, as a matter of fact, and he cleans off his knife and sets that down to pick up the candle and dribble bright blue wax along the careful lines of his name. The soul whimpers, but he doesn't move. Well, that won't do. Dean tilts the candle until the flame is touching the soul's skin, raising a spot of angry red against the tan. The soul doesn't flinch, just takes a deep breath through the gag and exhales long and slow.

"Why are you doing this, anyway?" Dean asks the soul, putting the candle back on the table. The soul can't answer, of course, but Dean asks anyway. "What did you get out of this?" There's all sorts of reasons why any given soul would be on Dean's rack. Dean's curious about this one. Wrath, envy, greed? Sloth or gluttony? Lust or pride? What was this one's sin? "Was it fabulous wealth? You look like the type to be tempted by fabulous wealth."

The soul rolls his eyes, and Dean laughs. "Was it sex? Because I can give you better sex than you got topside."

The soul blinks and tugs at the cuffs chaining him down.

Usually at this point they start protesting. Even when silenced, they do _something_.

Dean goes over to his collection of toys, noting the absences and wondering who's fucking with him this time, and picks out a black leather cock ring. Dean returns to the soul and starts stroking the soft skin of the soul's dick until it starts to respond, filling with blood and stiffening. Dean straps on the cock ring and buckles it, not quite too tight. He takes up the blade again and traces thin red lines in a spiral rising from the ring to the glans. Nothing damaging, because he doesn't mean to hurt this soul. Not today.

This one's a gift Dean's giving himself. Tall, tan, brunet, green-eyed, muscled; physically this soul resembles in every way the one whose face Dean can't quite remember. If Dean ever got Sam on his rack—if Sam was ever _that fucking stupid_ —Dean would want to start slow and gentle.

Sam's not in hell. Sam will never be in hell. Dean knows, because Alastair told him, that Sam tried to make a deal and wasn't allowed to, because nobody wants Sam in hell. (Afraid he'll take over.) Even in the impossible event that Sam ever finds his way to hell, Alastair will never let Dean near him. This is the closest Dean will ever come to seeing his brother again, unless Dean decides to seek pleasures upstairs. Dean will never do that because he can't remember Sam's face, and the one thing that still has the power to scare him is Sam on Dean's rack without the hell-granted ability to wake unharmed.

Dean's not alone. Not as long as he's got this soul to play with, this soul that looks so much like Sammy.

Dean puts down the knife and goes around the end of the bed, crawling up between the soul's legs. A lot of saliva and a little bit of teeth on the scratches on the soul's dick, and he'll be screaming for mercy. Or just screaming. Hard to tell the difference with the gag.

This one's going to be beautiful once he breaks.

He will break. That's not even in question. Dean's the best. The question is when. Not today; Dean's barely trying today. A little blood, a little pleasure, that's all, and that won't do it for this one. Dean has to ask, though, that's the ritual. But not just yet; he's enjoying sucking the soul's cock too much.

Dean swallows ejaculate and slides off. The soul is wearing a blissed-out expression, which means Dean's doing something right, even if not exactly the something he thought he'd been doing. Dean doesn't shrug, because that'd be a visual cue to Dean's mental state that the soul doesn't need to have.

"I'm going to take the gag out," he tells the soul. "And I'm going to ask you a question. The appropriate answer is 'yes, please'."

The soul glares.

Dean unbuckles the gag and takes it off.

"Safeword, fucker," the soul says.

"You're in hell, dumbass," Dean says. "No such thing."

" _Dean_ ," the soul says. "I did not actually follow you into hell. _Safeword_." He points at the purple T-shirt on the floor, where he might have dropped it while bound to the bed.

Everything snaps back into place: Sam Alastair Ruby Lilith Lucifer Michael Crowley Castiel Dick _Sam_.

"Shit," Dean says, scrambling for the cuff key. "Mother _fuck_."

"I'm okay, just uncuff me," Sam says. "Uh, and stitch me up." He bends his head down to look at the writing on his chest.

Dean fumbles, drops the key, picks it back up, gets one of Sam's arms free, then the other, then both ankles. Dean's shaking.

"It's all right," Sam soothes, sitting up, "it's okay, I'm okay. Give me the kit and sit down, I'll stitch myself up."

"I'm sorry," Dean says.

"My own damn fool idea," Sam reminds him. "I should have known better. The kit."

Dean fetches the first-aid kit and watches Sam's steady hands go stitch by stitch along the lines Dean carved into Sam's flesh. DEAN. Then mop up the blood, then antiseptic goo on Sam's dick, and that's got to hurt, and then Sam puts everything back in the kit and moves to the bed that hasn't got his blood all over it (what _will_ the maid think?), bringing Dean with him.

"It's all right," Sam repeats. "Stupid thing that we won't be doing again unless we can figure out how to keep you out of that headspace. But we've done stupider things."

"Yeah," Dean says. "We have."


End file.
